


Omega

by Trialia



Category: The Matrix (1999)
Genre: Angst, Confusion, Dreams, Dreams and Nightmares, Dreams vs. Reality, Gen, Hallucinations, Memories, Mystery, Senses, Sensuality, Spoilers, The Matrix: Revolutions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-01
Updated: 2006-04-01
Packaged: 2017-10-03 02:20:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trialia/pseuds/Trialia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>What's the time, Mr Anderson? </em> Are you dreaming, are you awake, or...?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Omega

**Author's Note:**

> For fanfic100 prompt "sixth sense".

Balance. He felt perfectly fine, but unbalanced.

Darkness blurred, as though all that were there had been shattered, dissipated into emptiness. Fragments of azure seemed to drift, breaking through the velvet of soundless midnight black, and light began to swell in front of his vision.

A face, a small girl, somehow familiar.

"You're not supposed to be here," she said, a questioning note in her voice. _Why am I here?_

Warping, changing, a man's face emerging from the flesh of the child, a man with dark glasses and a receding hairline.

"Purpose," a menacing growl of a voice, changing mid-note to a deeper, more lightly pitched tone.

Light covered his face, a doorway growing and exploding in fire.

"It's that feeling you have had all your life..."

"That something was wrong with the world."

"He knows more than you can imagine." A female voice, with a note of amusement, faint warning. A voice he feels he should know, but her name, her face, they won't come to his mind or his lips.

Darkness once more. A faint drip, drip, like raindrops sliding down a window, and he sees a vague, blurred screen of green drops, some kind of writing he doesn't recognise and a voice he instinctively doesn't trust, "Blonde, brunette, redhead..."

A scent brushes him, something musky and thick, heavy, but not unpleasant, reminding him of something untraceable. Then a stronger smell, almost like smoke. He remembers the feeling but he cannot recall it to mind; the whispers of memory betray him, and he feels as though he's falling backward, falling through dark and space and time - _what's the time, Mister Wolf?_ \--

\-- and then he wakes.

_~fin_


End file.
